In our small Arizona mountain town of Prescott — pronounced “Preskitt,” rhymes with biscuit — there are two Fred’s grocery stores. In our family shorthand, they are “North Fred’s” and “Rehab Fred’s,” because the latter happens to be near a lot of drug and alcohol rehab places, which we seem to have a lot of in Prescott. The clientele at the North Fred’s is more suburban; the Rehab Fred’s is more quirky. That’s okay. Prescott is quirky.

At the nearby Wal-Mart, for instance, it is routine to see cowboys wearing their sidearms strapped to their belts. I have given up being fazed by people sporting pajamas, or wild, enormous tattoos, or anything that might have turned my delicate head back east. Live and let live, it’s Prescott. I just push my cart. Once, though, at Wal-Mart, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something dark and small behind me. Very small, too short to be a person. That’s because it was a duck. A black duck, just standing in line. He seemed to be hanging with two human companions, by their cart. I sneaked a picture with my phone. Later, I mentioned it to someone who works at Wal-Mart. “Yeah, they come here a lot.” What I love about my town is that nobody batted an eye. A duck in the express checkout lane … that’s just Prescott.

Today I went to the Rehab Fred’s, trying to hurry, as always, so I could come back home and get to work. There he was, my least favorite cashier, Mr. Grumpy. I have written about him before. He has a thing about scanning the Fred’s VIP card before he will scan a single grocery item. He won’t move without that card. I don’t like this, because if I’m behind the cart, trying to put its entire contents on the conveyor belt as quickly as possible, I don’t like having to push the cart aside, take those two extra steps — it’s the principle of the thing — and give the guy my card. He is the sole exception in all my Fred’s shopping experiences; every other cashier will just start scanning. The cash register doesn’t care; you still get the VIP discount. Not Mr. Grumpy. In the past, he has actually folded his hands and waited until I gave him the card before he would scan a single item. Not even a bunch of grapes, or a single bottle of ketchup. He would not scan them with a mouse, he would not scan them in a house. He would not scan them at all, the louse. Today, I wasn’t having it.

“Do you have your Fred’s VIP card?” Yes, I said, “but can I give it to you in a minute?” He sighed. “I guess so.” The bagger guy stepped forward and asked if he could help me unload my cart. “Yeah, she needs it,” the cashier said. Grr. Still, I count it as a victory. On the way out, in succession, I saw three things. One was a lone piece of broccoli in the parking lot. I took a picture of it. As Samwise Gamgee said in Fellowship of the Ring, “I don’t know why, It makes me sad.” Two, a bumper sticker: “Honk if you really need to poop.” Why would anyone have this on his or her car? To feel solidarity — no pun intended — with anyone who honks? Seriously, I am baffled. Then, another bumper sticker: “Constipated people don’t give a poop.” Except it didn’t say poop. Again, why this needed to be said is a mystery to me. I don’t have a bumper sticker, but if I had to choose one, it would probably have a happy dog on it or something.

But live and let live. It’s Prescott, where life is generally pretty good.

This post and all blog content Ⓒ Copyright Janet Farrar Worthington. P.S. I changed the name of the grocery store.

Hi. Sorta in connection with your blog…. I used to live next door to a Highway Patrol man in California. He told me that sometimes, when he needed to get to the bathroom (Toilet) he’d put on his siren. so now, I do wonder if when i hear a siren. He also told me that sometimes a ‘collection of pot’ from someone who was now under arrest for possession would not get to the station in it’s entirety. But that was a long time ago before ‘testing’.

When I go to Fry’s, I do anything I can to avoid “Mr. Grumpy”. I have also told him to wait until I get my basket unloaded. It seems that he must really hate his work. There is one other checker who is an older man who is also not very happy in his work but he has tried harder lately to be pleasant. (I am in my 70’s so I can call people “older”) Both of these men have worked at this Fry’s since it opened I believe. It must be hard to get rid of them. I think that they might have even been at the “old” Fry’s over on Gurley. That was before you moved to Prescott. I enjoy your writing! Keep up the good work!

Search

Categories

Don’t miss any of my posts, adventures, and observations. Sign up for my email newsletter today.

Email*

First Name*

CAPTCHA

Bumble Creek Farm

A delightful true account, told with love and humor by award-winning writer Janet Farrar Worthington, of her young family's riotous adventures on their own "Green Acres," as two urban professionals "who had no idea whatsoever what we were doing" start a farm in beautiful Horse Oak, Virginia.

Janet has done it again in this charming book giving happy little snapshots of home and family, animals with attitude, life in a small town, and finding the funny when everything seems crazy.